His Brothers' Keeper
by AoiGensou
Summary: Altaïr is not the only assassin ever sent to Jerusalem. Malik just wishes they would stop bleeding in the courtyard of the Assassin's Bureau. Written for Framlingem for the 2013 Not Prime Time exchange.


Malik stared at the assassin in front of him, bleeding rudely in his entryway and looking nothing like the lion his name suggested he should.

"Asad," he said in a level tone of voice that belied his annoyance, "do you have something you wish to tell me?"

"No, _Rafiq_. I mean yes, _Rafiq_," the young assassin stuttered, leaning against the wall. "Things did not go as well as I had planned..." Malik sighed, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth and moving inside to grab a pile of clean rags he kept for this purpose.

"Here, sit," he ordered as he returned to Asad in the courtyard. "Where are you injured?"

Instead of answering, Asad removed his clothing to the waist carefully, showing several smaller injuries that would heal on their own, and one large gash along the ribs on his right side that would need to be stitched shut. Malik took a rag from the top of the pile after setting them down and held it against the still-bleeding wound.

"I will fetch the doctor," he said, ignoring the pained hiss that escaped from between Asad's clenched teeth. "What of the target?" It was apparent that he knew what the answer was even as he asked.

"He lives," Asad answered in a meek voice. He couldn't have been much older than 17, still a novice in more than one aspect. Malik closed his eyes in exasperation. It shouldn't have been a difficult assassination, it was a low-ranking merchant that had been trafficking in both weapons and humans, but hadn't had the money or status to cover his tracks adequately. His network of informants had let him know that he didn't even have a large security force yet. The fact that Asad has let him escape, and with a grievous injury, was testament to just how green he was.

At least if Altaïr had been the one assigned to the task, he could count on him to not die. He was good at not dying when he should have, Malik thought bitterly. The thought of Solomon's Temple still brought a sour taste to his mouth, though he was beginning to see a change in him that made him think forgiveness might not be such an impossible task.

Though the thought of forgiving Altaïr anything just made him rankle.

"Keep your hand over the wound," Malik instructed Asad, before moving toward the fountain to grab a dipper and splash water down to keep the blood from drying. It wasn't the first time someone had bled on his courtyard floor, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. He wondered how the previous _Rafiq_ had kept his patience with the novices that were sent to Jerusalem on their first assignment.

"When you are well, you will be scrubbing the courtyard until it gleams," he warned Asad, setting the dipper aside. He could practically hear the young man droop behind him.

"Yes, _Rafiq_," he said.

"Stay put, and try not to die," Malik instructed, setting several clean cloths next to Asad and returning the rest inside. He grabbed his pouch full of coins, and secured it beneath the robes proclaiming his status as _dai_. Casting an eye at a half-finished map he had been working on until the half-dead novice had dropped in on him - almost literally - he sighed once more. There would be no work done that day.

He left the bureau the way the other assassins came and went, and his hackles raised when he imagined the astonishment that was probably on Asad's face when he witnessed a one-armed man scaling a wall that way. He was no invalid, he needed no assistance in his day-to-day tasks, and he would give anyone that thought otherwise a thorough tongue-lashing until they realized how wrong they were.

Being so angry at the world at large was tiring, though, and since Asad was injured he spared him. At least until he was healed.

The trip to the doctor was short and uneventful. He was a man who had stitched many an assassin, and was sympathetic to their cause.

"Another one?" the doctor asked in an unsurprised voice when he looked up and saw Malik in the doorway. Malik's lips twisted into a wry smile.

"The young ones tend to overestimate their skills," he said. The doctor chuckled, and Malik reached into his robes to draw out several coins to hand to the doctor. The doctor took them, and set them aside before gathering his instruments into a bag. Malik waited respectfully by the door for him to be ready, and followed him out when he exited.

"You are not a man that tolerates incompetence, I can tell," the doctor said, smiling.

"Incompetence is not something that should be tolerated," Malik answered, agreeing.

"Do you ever think that you are perhaps too hard on those novices of yours?" the doctor asked.

"If I am not hard on them, they will not learn. They will be dead." Malik clenched his one hand, and he very deliberately did not think of Kadar, and how gentleness and leniency, naïveté and idealism, got him nothing but an early and shallow grave.

"If you are too hard, then they in turn become hard. A hard man is unyielding, especially in times when flexibility may be prudent."

"They are young. They are resilient." Malik refused to look at the doctor. He didn't know if he was right, but he didn't want to see any other young men suffer his brother's fate.

"Think about it," the doctor said gently. Malik gave him a jerky nod, and the two of them fell silent.

It was near the bureau when a man rushed to him, breathless. Malik recognized him as one of his network of informants, and paused in his steps.

"_Rafiq_," he said, offering him a short bow. The sounds of distant conflict floated above the rooftops, making the usual murmur of humanity pause to observe. "Altaïr is back."

The doctor, slightly ahead of the two of them, shook his head. "I didn't bring enough bandages, if that is the case," he said in a voice Malik took to be joking. Malik lifted his hand to rub at his temple.

"I will worry about him when he comes crashing in as usual," he said, "but keep an eye on him." The informant bowed once more, disappearing into the shadows of an alleyway. Malik turned back toward the doctor, toward their destination, and considered shutting the entrance of the bureau behind him once they arrived. "That, doctor," he said, his tone long-suffering and full of resignation, "is what happens when there is nobody willing to be hard on a novice that thinks he is invincible."

"What, Altaïr?" the doctor asked, curiously. Malik knew he was fishing for a story, but he had neither the patience nor the time to tell the tale of the Eagle of Masyaf.

"Yes. Now come, I have a feeling it will be a long night for the two of us."

The sun shone overhead, beating down on the city, and as the two of them drew closer to the bureau entrance, so too did the sounds of fighting.

Malik sighed.


End file.
